


that was then

by thezerocard



Category: The Penumbra Podcast
Genre: Backstory, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-27
Updated: 2017-11-26
Packaged: 2018-11-19 19:42:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,963
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11320329
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thezerocard/pseuds/thezerocard
Summary: The Festival of the Three happens every year in the Citadel. Some years are more memorable than others.





	1. Damien

It was cool and dim in the herbalist’s cottage, a soothing retreat after a long day on the training grounds. Damien sat at Rilla’s dining table, a rough-hewn thing scarcely big enough for two, and watched her at work. She was poetry in motion, his forever-flower, every movement measured and precise. Her long hair, dark and bramble-wild, had been pulled back and tied into a tail, but wisps escaped to frame her face despite her best efforts. The high-collared green tunic she wore left her broad, freckled shoulders bare, and he gathered from the little pile on the ground nearby that she’d already shed her leggings and shoes.

On the stone worktable before her, a variety of plants and growing things (were mushrooms plants, after all? They grew out of the ground, but he felt some suspicion as to their true nature) lay neatly pinned to a square of cork. Most of them were glowing, their faint green light made visible only by the cottage’s shadow. Rilla moved over each of them with a piece of glass, sending odd refractions in all directions. He propped his head up with one hand, almost sleepy, watching as she examined each specimen in turn. Outside, the insects hummed and sang.

 

It was the earliest thing he could remember. Damien wasn’t sure when it happened, or even where—if it had been the cottage by the lake or later, after they’d moved closer to the Citadel itself, the stone house by the market square. But he had been young enough, still, for stories at night, for the sensation of his mother’s hand in his hair. The air had been warm and still, his room lit by the warm amber of his night-candle and his mother’s voice.

“But on the second day, there came another horde, even larger than the first! And this horde of monsters came by the sea. Who met them in the sea, my love?”

“Damien, Saint Damien!” The answer bubbled up out of him, but he made it a whisper, because it was night and he knew he must be quiet at night. His mother smiled and tapped him on the tip of his nose.

“Just right, my love. Saint Damien the Tranquil met them there. And all around him the monsters circled, and they opened their mouths and showed their teeth, sharp as knives. But Saint Damien stood ever so still, and ever so patient, and he did not move an inch until precisely the right moment. Then he threw his fisherman’s spear into the waves at just such an angle, at just such a force!” She moved as she spoke, her clever hands echoing the throw and the spear itself, darting in and out of the light. He had been enraptured, as he was every time, mouth open as he clutched at the blankets beneath his chin.

“And he made a mighty whirlpool in the water that spun and shredded the demons all to pieces!” She made the noise of the whirlpool, a whoosh that startled a gasp out of him, then yowled like the demons all shredded to bits. He yowled too, a higher noise, and made his best demon face, and it made her smile at him again. He grinned and rubbed his face against the softness of his pillow.  


“Mama?” he said, struck by a sudden thought.

“Yes, my love?”

“What’s a whirlpool?” He knew it from the story, that Saint Damien made it, but nobody’d ever showed him what it looked like. He thinks maybe the waves get sharp and that’s how they shred, but then he doesn’t think that’s it, because when they went to the sea the water was soft, not sharp at all, and didn’t make anything into pieces.

“A whirlpool is…” She looked thoughtful for a moment, then reached for her cup of water on the bedside table. The mug had been gently rounded, of his father’s making, and a chestnut brown just one shade darker than the hands that held it up for his perusal. The water within caught the candlelight and glimmered, a trapped circle of sun.

“Water moves as we push it. You know that, don’t you, Damien? If you splash in the bath the water gets out?” He nodded. He’d known that for ages. He wasn’t a baby anymore.

“Well. A whirlpool is what happens when you push the water hard enough in one direction—in a circle, like this.” She put one finger in the mug and began to swirl it around the edges, slow and steady, careful not to let the water get out. “If you push at just such an angle, at just such a force—“ He knew she was smiling, using the words from the story so he understood, but Damien couldn’t take his eyes away from the cup of water, where something was happening. The candle-bright water was changing, getting deeper in the middle, moving round and round and pulling down and down… The peace and clarity of the water had vanished with not even a sound to mark it, and only a thing that ate monsters was left.

The memory ended there: the whirlpool, his mother’s hands, _tranquility,_ like a place that only existed in legends.

 

Back in the present, Damien stilled his hands, which had been tracing gentle patterns on the surface of the table. He was smiling, but he was not surprised to find himself on the precipice of tears. His eyes, like his heart, had always been somewhat prone to overflowing. He rubbed at one eye as though some piece of grit had gotten into it.

“Damien?” Rilla had paused in her examination and was looking at him with some concern, undeceived by his attempt at composure. “Is everything alright?”

“Perfectly alright, my love,” he assured her. “I was merely struck all over again by my deep and ardent devotion to you.” That made her snort, but she was smiling, the soft and easy smile he liked best.

“Oh, my poet. I love you, too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I thought this work was going to be something quick and I'd get it out of my system. As it turns out, maybe not.
> 
> This hasn't been beta-ed, but if anyone is interested in helping with this / future Penumbra works, please let me know!


	2. Rilla

Rilla was practical. Or, at least, she had been called practical all her life. She suspected that sometimes this word really meant “blunt”, and sometimes it meant “impatient”, and sometimes it meant “unwilling to pretend that she wanted a necklace for her Saint Day when what she really needed was a new belt knife.”

It wasn’t a bad defining feature, as these things went. But the problem with being practical was that you became surrounded by practical things: things designed only for purpose, not for beauty. And it was easy, terribly easy, to let this be enough.

She worked to surround herself with more. Singing was a gift she gave herself, the simple joy and satisfaction of her voice raised high, a complex melody. Experimentation, too—not just the everyday cures that folk needed and knew her for, but other things, new plants and wild theories about their properties, the thrill of a chase that might end in nothing at all. But her finest, most impractical indulgence was the man she’d promised to marry—and all that came with him.

 

Rilla was in the midst of decanting one of her latest attempts at an energy stimulant when the knight walked into her home. She knew him for a knight by the clothes he was wearing, though he bore no sword or symbol; they were fine clothes, but far more practical to move about in than the court itself favored, and in the queen’s colors. Enough to be getting on with, though she’d let him introduce himself properly. He came through the open door and stood there, silhouetted by the fading sunlight, and gaped about him like a fish pulled suddenly to shore.

Most did when they entered her cottage for the first time. It was unlike the clean white walls and open spaces of the town or market, close and cool, with herbs hanging from the ceiling and jars of various concoctions lining the walls, some of which glowed faintly. A stone table dominated the space, on which sat the tools of her trade, with their strange iron shapes and mysterious stains. She gave him a moment to satisfy his curiosity, and then another, but he remained silent, only staring as though he intended to commit the contents of her shop to memory.

“Yes? Can I help you?” she asked at last, eyebrows raised.

He startled, as though he’d somehow missed her standing there holding a jar in one hand and a funnel in the other, but managed a passable bow in her direction.  


“Ah, hello! You must be the talented herbalist I’ve come to seek.”

Rilla blinked. She looked from the jar she held, full of a deep green liquid, to her much-abused apron, to the worktable in front of her with its stacks of notes and dried plants.

“Yes,” she said. “I am the herbalist.”

He did not seem at all deterred by her tone.

“I’ve heard a great deal about you, you know. The folk in town have been positively profuse in their praise.” Had they been? Well, that was good to know. Rilla lived out beyond what were typically imaged as the town’s boundaries, and rarely interacted with folk outside of her shop. She knew that this might have been a source of some gossip; it appeared her ability to cure folk and their livestock had won out over a little eccentricity.

“How kind,” she said, somewhat distractedly, lifting the jar she held up to the light from the window. Yes, it had settled well enough. As she set it down with the funnel and began to search for the small vials, he continued talking, apparently without any real need for her input.

“Indeed! And I thought, Sir Damien—that’s me, I mean, Sir Damien, I said to myself—how can it be that such a talented herbalist resides here in our very Citadel and I have yet to make their acquaintance! For the life of a knight is fraught with danger, you understand. I myself am tied for the record of most monsters vanquished, a source of some little pride, but oh, the injuries borne in my quests! The peril faced! So it could be nothing but good to become familiar with our local miracle worker, should I face a foul beast with powers beyond the pale!”

She was beginning to wonder what, exactly, had wandered into her home. In her experience, knights didn’t come see her directly; they sent squires, or runners, for anything the castle folk couldn’t handle, but they certainly didn’t come all the way out here to boast about their victories. Lips pursed, Rilla set the vials down on the stone table with a sharp _clink_.

“What is it you _want,_ Sir Damien?”

“Ah, yes. My apologies, but I hadn’t thought that far ahead, you see. There are any number of things that would be invaluable in my battle against the enemies of our Citadel. Perhaps a concoction that grants one the ability to see invisible monsters? Or, well, creatures, as the case may be. It may yet be possible that there are invisible creatures who aren’t monstrous, or perhaps well-intentioned creatures made invisible by monsters? There are some stories, but I suspect the repertoire is fairly limited in that respect. At any rate, I understand the traditional application is a salve applied to both eyelids, but if something ingestible is easier or more efficacious, I’m not opposed to that, of course, but I’m sure you know best, you are the expert and I wouldn’t presume to suggest--” Rilla felt her eyebrows rising higher as he just kept going, until finally she couldn’t bear it any more.

“You have no idea what an herbalist actually does, do you?” she asked, and watched him splutter to a stop.

“Apparently not,” he managed. She sighed.

“I work with herbs. I harvest plants in the forest, I observe their properties. I research and test. I grind and sieve and chop and dry and--“ She gestured theatrically at the jar, then with some ceremony set the funnel into the mouth of a vial. “Decant.” The liquid that filled the vial was clearer, unclouded by particulates. She continued talking as she moved onto the next.

“There is a great deal of good to be done with this knowledge. I know cures for small illnesses, for cleaning wounds and soothing throats, for the prevention of fever. I can make births easier, I can dull pain, I can cure an animal of insects or other pests. I _help_ people. I make them healthy. That’s something I can do. What I can’t do is…is cure death or grant a man super strength, or foresight, or whatever ridiculous thing you’ve thought of next! I’m a human woman, not some witch from a story!”

She realized she’d been gesturing with a nearly-full vial in her hand and huffed out a breath. She set it down carefully, fixing the knight with an exasperated look.

“I’m not a magic-worker. If it seems that way to the folks in the village, that’s because they don’t understand the underlying principles at work. My cures work because I know what I’m doing and I’ve tested them thoroughly, not because I picked the herbs under a new moon.” She snorted as she stoppered the vial and set it with the others. “And there’s no such thing as an invisibility elixir, salve or otherwise.”

“There isn’t?”

“No.”

“Oh.” He thought about that for a moment, looking crestfallen, then added, hesitantly, “You must think me terribly foolish.”

Rilla really looked at him then, caught by something in his tone. The knight stood by her doorway, not meeting her eyes, curled fist pressed against his mouth as though he could keep any more words from emerging. He had a little birthmark under one eye she hadn’t noticed before. On the inside of his forearm there was a welt, pink and tender-looking. She cleared her throat and turned to the shelves behind her, carefully selecting a few neatly-tied bundles of herbs.

“I’ve met plenty of fools, but I wouldn’t count you among them, Sir Damien. I find you only a little…over-enthusiastic.”

“Enthusiastic? But of course, my good woman! Emotion is my art, and passion my paintbrush! I am a poet by trade, and I would no more conceal my feelings than I would cut off my hands. One must experience all things genuinely and to the utmost, or the soul withers from lack of sustenance!”

Oh, saints. Of course he was a poet.

“I’m not your “good woman”,” she told him, refusing to address the rest of it.

“Ah! Yes! My—that is, my apologies. I realize I haven’t even asked your name. A grievous failing, and terribly impolite. Sorry. So sorry. I was distracted, you understand, the question at hand and then your lovely home and you—aha, you, your workplace…” He trailed off, muttering something too quiet to hear with one hand on his forehead. Rilla cut and measured while he thought, adding comfrey and lavender, psyllium to bind… Just as she wondered if she ought to cut him off again, he dropped his hand and looked her directly in the eyes. Finally, he asked,

“What may I call you, madam?”

He had lovely eyes. It was a sudden, absurd awareness, but once she’d had the thought, there it was. Perhaps that was why, rather than giving him her full name as might have been proper for a complete stranger, she said:

“Rilla. You can call me Rilla.”

“Oh?” His smile was lovely, too. “It’s a beautiful name. It suits you.”

“It’s a nickname.” She glanced away, then back, tucking her hair behind her ear. “Short for Amaryllis.”

“Amaryllis,” he breathed, his big brown eyes so soft it made her heart shudder, made her want to run into the trees and never come back. Nobody had ever said her name that way before. Most of the time they said it like the lead-in to a joke: what was a woman like her doing with a name like _that_? But in this knight’s mouth it was a different thing. He said her name like a man holding the first small blossoms of spring.

“Yes. Don’t wear it out.” She kept her hands steady and her tone dry, focusing on the grinding rhythm of mortar and pestle, the rising scent of lavender.

“I- oh. I shan’t.” Rilla heard the floorboards creaking as he shifted from foot to foot. She let him stew a moment as she transferred the crushed herbs to a bowl and added enough water to form a paste.

“As it turns out, I have something which might be useful to you after all. The injury on your arm, there—how did you come by it?”

“This? It’s nothing impressive, I’m afraid, only the kind of careless injury a thousand bowmen have suffered.” He touched the skin above the welt, remembering, she imagined, countless other hurts. She could picture now how it might have happened, a bowstring snapped against unprotected flesh.

“You’re an archer, then?” It didn’t seem like a knight’s weapon, but then, what did she know about knights?

“Indeed! I am in fact the finest archer the Second Citadel has to offer.” That was certainly a knight’s answer. “I’ve an eagle’s eye and a steady hand, by the grace of Saint Damien himself, and there’s not a soul in twenty leagues who can--”

“I believe you, Sir Damien, there’s no need to convince me.”

“Ah. Thank you. That is—you could call me Damien, if you wanted. Rilla.” Her stirring halted, for just a moment, when he said her name.

“I shall,” she said quietly. Even focused as she was on the poultice, she knew he was smiling. There was a moment of amicable silence as he watched her work.

“Come here, then. This will help it heal faster.”

Damien stepped around to stand at her side without hesitation. She reached into a basket hung near her worktable for the bandage she would use to hold her cure in place. It was cloth of her own devising, sealed with beeswax so as to keep the poultice fresh for longer, though the result was an unfortunate sickly yellow color. She took his arm and turned it upwards, applying the poultice carefully.

“It's free of charge, with the condition that you tell me if at any point it grants you the ability to see invisible monsters,” she said wryly.

“If it—oh! Oh, you’re teasing me.”

“Yes, Damien. I am.” Rilla wrapped the bandage, neatly tied off the cloth, then, unable to help herself, gave his arm a little squeeze. All corded muscle, just as it looked. His breath hitched and she raised her head to look at him.

They were nearly of a height, which surprised her—he’d looked shorter, cowering there by her doorway, but in truth he had perhaps two inches on her. His arm twitched as though he would move it to his face, and they both realized simultaneously that she was still holding onto it. She let go and turned back to her worktable, needlessly tidying up the few materials she’d used. After a moment he took a step back, putting himself at a reasonable conversational distance and not—whatever that had been. Rilla tied off the bundle of lavender with slightly more force than necessary.

Damien cleared his throat.

“Are you planning on—do you have time to—are you going to the village tonight? For the festival?”

“The festival?” She wasn’t sure she’d heard him correctly.

“It’s Saint Aren’s Day!” He gaped at her in astonishment when her only reaction was a shrug. “The Festival of the Three? Fine battles, tests of knightly mettle, the most beautiful ballads the bards of the realm can conceive—the, the Festival of the Three!” A corner of her mouth quirked upwards, almost unwilling.

“I know what it _is_ , Damien. I’m just not interested.”

“Not- not interested?” The knight truly did wear his emotions on his sleeve, or rather his face; he looked truly crushed in a way that bewildered her. He opened his mouth, closed it, then cleared his throat again. It appeared that he was marshalling his spirits, though towards what purpose she couldn’t imagine.

“It’s only—I had hoped—that is, if you weren’t busy, but of course you are, very important work you’re doing here and I’m just distracting you, utterly foolish of me really, I can’t apologize enough for interrupting your workday and bothering you and taking your cures and asking you to—to—“

“You haven’t asked me anything yet.” She folded her arms, still watching him with a furrowed brow. He took a long, slow breath, and then this time she heard what he murmured to himself: a prayer to Saint Damien for tranquility. Rilla tried not to find this charming, and failed.

“Amaryllis. Rilla. Would you like to go to the festival with me?”

The herbalist did her utmost to appear unfazed by this, but it took some effort. And how ridiculous, that—to be surprised! Of course this was what he had been trying to say. There was no reason to be surprised that a handsome knight had come into her cottage and asked her to go with him into the village on some sort of…for the purpose of courting. People did this sort of thing all the time, and a woman of her age should certainly not feel her heart fluttering like an adolescent at the mere thought. Yes, this was terribly common, and she had no reason to be feeling this way, despite her statistically unlikely (though, taking into account the social factors, quite understandable) inexperience. This happened all the time. Just…not to her.

Perhaps she’d been silent for too long, because Damien was beginning to look like he’d expire on the spot. His breath was rising, and surely that look in his eyes was poorly-concealed panic. Rilla reached out for him again, her movements slow and deliberate, and placed her hand on his arm. She found that she was smiling.

“Yes, Damien,” she said. “I would like that very much.”

 

He scared her, her poet. Her knight with his strong arms and his silver tongue, his racing thoughts and his wide-open heart. A man full of so much love it bled all over. (A man who frequently, literally, bled all over, and then bragged about it to anyone who would listen.)

But more than that, he was good. And it was good. The fear, and the pride, and the worry, and the fierce need to protect—all these terrible feelings and more, so unnecessary and so vital. She was grateful for them, really. Though of course she’d no more gotten used to the way things were then he’d thrown another catalyst into the mix, and a reaction that set everything off again.

Rilla set down the increasing glass and shook out her arm, only now feeling the strain in her shoulder from holding is still for so long—she ought to rig something to hold it steady over the table. Come to think of it, that might be a project for the two of them…

“Are you certain I can’t assist you in this, my love?”

She looked over at Damien and raised an eyebrow.

“I assure you we’ve got enough hands on this project already. And you don’t have any idea what I’m doing.”

“That is true.” He yawned, slumping a little in her chair. She shook her head at him.

“Rest your eyes if you need it. Your fretting won’t have him home any sooner.”

“But it won’t have him home any _later_ , will it?”

“Save the wordplay for the lizard and shut your eyes, Damien.”

“Yes, Rilla.”

As his breathing slowed and evened, Rilla reflected that sometimes being practical had its place.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really like Rilla-- I hope y'all do too.


	3. Arum

It was dark, and later than he’d wanted, when Arum finally glimpsed the familiar shape in the distance. Once upon a time, the cottage had looked terribly foreign to his eyes, all hard angles and solid grey stone; now the sight meant comfort, of a kind. It helped that in the growing season flowering vines had tenaciously overtaken the walls and thatched roof, softening the sharp edges and filling the air with scents that reminded him of home.

There was no firelight within, only a dim green glow, just bright enough to make out the shape of the windows and doorframe. Arum cradled his bounty carefully with his lower arms as he made his way down to the forest floor. It wouldn’t do to let it fall now. Particularly as the contents would likely leave a terribly embarrassing stain. He approached the front door, paused, and adjusted the fall of his cloak slightly. Then the positioning of his brooch. Then, frowning, rubbed at his claws to make sure they were clean of wood shavings and other detritus.

_There._ He had just arranged everything to his satisfaction when a loud noise made him startle, knives at the ready—but it was only fireworks high overhead.

It was the final night of the festival, he realized, staring upward. The light played over the trees, the thatched roof of the cottage, colors bright and strange. Arum slid his knives back into their sheaths and let his breath out in one long sigh. The air was heavy with the scent of jasmine and wet soil. He imagined, somewhere in the distance, the smell of smoke and scorched earth—and remembered, somewhere in the past, a night much like this one.

 

In the sky over the human hive, something was exploding. He could ignore the garish lights well enough under the canopy, but the sound would not be stifled; the cracks and booms of irresponsible alchemy echoed against the trees. He dug his claws into the bark of the tree beneath him deeper than he needed to, releasing the scent of green sap.

It was not enough that the humans persisted, that they hunted and killed and gloried in their ignorance; they had to scream their existence at the very sky. It was more than frustrating— it was positively gauche.

And it was giving Arum a headache. He took a slow breath, deliberately relaxing his grip. It was no matter. What he had to do here tonight was important, but simple. He would not allow this distraction to keep him from his quest.

The explosions had mostly ceased by the time he arrived at the clearing, with only the occasional flurry of noise and light. Still, Arum took his time listening to his surroundings before he drew any closer; it wouldn’t do to be caught by surprise, not here. As a result, he heard the presence of another creature before he saw it, a footstep muffled by groundcover.

From his position prone on the limb of a walnut tree Arum waited, eyes slitted, for the creature to come into view. Two-legged, by the gait, and small; that was curious, because anything small enough to climb into the canopy should’ve been there. Lord Laevis had made his claim here plain. To walk in among the trees meant one of three things: this monster was injured, incredibly dangerous, or an idiot.

A moment later, as it finally emerged from the trees, Arum knew it was the last.

A human stood by the edge of the clearing, looking about itself slowly. Small was right-- perhaps a head or two shorter than himself, vine-slender, and unarmored. It was dressed somewhat sensibly in the colors of the jungle, deep green and brilliant orange, but it had left whole limbs bare, brown scaleless skin exposed to the elements. A female human, if what he remembered about the garb was correct.

A small, female, unarmored human in the clearing of the Titan Bloom. It was enough to make him wonder if he hadn’t inhaled some dreamweed on the way over.

But the human continued to look about herself, remaining corporeal and visible. Arum shifted his weight and gathered his legs beneath him, thinking furiously.

Regardless of how in the world she’d gotten here, there was only one thing of interest in the clearing, and she would be drawn to it eventually. The Bloom was striking even to the uneducated eye-- it rose proudly from its bed of moss, a blossom grown to enormous size. The spadix, pale green like an enormous tongue, reached high above his head. The spathe that wreathed it was a red so deep it was nearly purple; it looked as though a magnificent cloak had been left to stiffen, then inverted, folds arrayed in glistening shades.

It was a beautiful thing. It represented wealth, nobility, and security. It was a symbol of botanical supremacy and a marker of status. He had come here to kill it. 

And if this human approached it first, she would indubitably get herself killed, and himself along with her.

Arum made his decision. He leapt.

Land behind her in the dirt, silent-- arm around her throat, hand over her mouth, tail around one leg to unbalance her-- an application of strength and momentum and she toppled like a felled log. Easy, so easy. He knelt over her. He drew back his free hand, aiming for the exposed skin of her throat, and she kneed him in the ribs.

That alone wouldn’t have been enough to shake his grip; he was no amateur, to let go his prey for a little pain. But his grip over her mouth did slip enough that she could open it, and she proceeded to clamp down on his hand with dull teeth but a terribly ferocious strength. He hissed, involuntary, and flung her away like he would a rat. The motion of it sent him backwards, a little, and scrambled to his feet, looking about him with his first moment of actual panic. 

But no. He was clear of the ring. It would have been an awful irony to have come so far and be done in by his own creation.

The creeper that grew in an irregular circle around the Bloom was deep emerald in color, low to the ground, easily overlooked by the untrained eye. It might have been lowgrass, or the leavings of a mushroom ring. But it wasn’t. It was thousands of tiny grasping vines lying in wait.

The insects he’d tested it on had been consumed completely; much larger animals weren’t in quite so much danger, but the creeper was terribly tenacious. Anything that set a foot down there would soon find that it wasn’t coming back up. It also secreted a mild irritant that would eventually eat through cloth, though he hadn’t managed to get it nearly as potent as he’d have preferred.

A simple trap, but elegant. And effective. If the human had fallen for it, it would mean screaming, and yelping, and all manner of unpleasant attention turned upon this location. It would also mean a dead human, which was of less import to him but still an inevitable outcome. 

Arum was certain he’d made the correct decision. But now he had a different problem to deal with. He regarded it with slitted eyes, letting his frill rise.

The human had managed to regain her footing some distance away. She held a knife out in front of herself in a practiced grip. It was sharp—but it was also a single weapon, and wielded by an arm that he could snap between his teeth without effort. Arum let a rattle echo in his throat, low and mocking.

“I don’t think you want to get any closer, beast.”

“On the contrary, human. I think you and I will get very close indeed. ” He bared his teeth and took a step forward, drawing his own knives. They gleamed in the moonlight, far brighter than the human’s puny blade; better quality, he thought, and likely better cared-for.

“I’ll scream.”

“I expect you to, of course, but there is no one in this forest who will aid you.” He shifted his grip on the knives and prowled closer. Cut her throat first, then? He had to be certain, or else—

“I think someone _will_ hear me. And I think you don’t want them to. Because you’re not supposed to be here.”

That stopped him short.

“What are you—that’s ridiculous!” he sputtered. “Of course I’m— _you’re_ the one out of their depth here, little thing. I am a monster. Of course I’m supposed to be here.”

She lowered her knife, which was somehow more of an insult that anything she could have said to him. His tail lashed at the air, sharp but soundless.

“Not the jungle,” she said patiently. “Here. This clearing. Perhaps…this plant in particular? You’re not meant to be here, and you’re worried someone will hear you and come running.”

“That’s ridiculous,” he said again, and knew by the sound of his own voice that she’d won. She could do to look less smug about it. 

“That’s out of the way, then.” She sheathed her knife and looked him up and down, appraising, then nodded to herself.

“ My name is Amaryllis,” she told him. It suited her. Arum resolved to forget it as soon as possible. 

She waited out his silence for a long moment, then sighed.

“Well. I know you’ve a name beyond ‘monster’, though I can’t be sure I’ll pronounce it right. Unless you’d rather I call you ‘lizard’?” Something in her tone made him draw himself up, displaying every inch of his superior height, his gleaming scales and teeth.

“I am Arum, scion of Aridae, who would be lord of the Swamp of Death’s Blooms!” He spread his arms spread wide to encompass the breadth his domain, incidentally displaying his lethal claws in the process.

“’ _Would_ be?’” she repeated, unerringly focusing on the least pertinent part of his declaration. The tip of Arum’s tail twitched in irritation. He let his arms fall.

“It’s a complex political situation and no business of yours,” he hissed.

And it _was_ complex, if only because the reckoning of status was complex in places like these. Heritage was one thing to consider, but power...power was different. Power among monsters came from not only ability, but truly embodying your nature. Arum was an architect, a creator, master of invention and innovation. He was known for his designs, but famous for his plants. So to have Laevis so near and so clearly displaying a superior specimen was not only an insult but an attack upon his status.

What good was he as an architect if Laevis, who only had the two hands and more interest in eating plants than cultivating them, could outshine him? It was injury too sharp to be borne. Fortunately, Arum had other talents, and the ruthlessness to see them put to use.

It all hinged upon the Bloom. If it wilted, or faltered, or died altogether...well. Everyone would know what a fluke it had been.

And it needed to be tonight, when the plant finally truly bloomed, because in the morning Laevis would be holding circle here, every monster of significance present to witness his triumph. Arum planned to arrive unfashionably early just so that he could watch the brute’s ears drop when he saw what had become of his precious trophy. He also planned to do a great deal of genteel gloating.

But. Well. He couldn’t proceed with any of his meticulously-laid plans until he’d rid himself of this soft-skinned pest. And since she apparently refused to be scared off, he’d have to somehow _reason_ with her. 

They looked at each other. He broke first.

“Very well. What do you want, human?”

“Amaryllis. And I’m an herbalist. So.” She moved her head in the direction of the Bloom, as though all else was implicit. Arum lashed his tail impatiently.

“‘ _So_?’” he repeated. “So how have you found this place, so far from home, and you such a delicate thing? So why at this hour of the night? _What_ do you _want_?”

She looked at him with a twist to her mouth. It made her look condescending and unattractive and he wished she would cease immediately.

“I gather herbs not far from here. I saw it on my outing this morning but I didn’t have a chance to stop. A plant of that size, a variety I’d never seen before? Of course I needed samples, but it wasn’t in bloom. I suspected it might be night-blooming, so I came back to check. How did you know it would be tonight? You must have been sure, to risk it despite the danger.” She gestured vaguely with a single pathetic human hand at their surroundings.

A curious little human. An _observant_ little human. How uniquely annoying. Arum took a step closer to her, within arm’s reach now. He let his tongue flicker out to taste the air a scant distance from her cheek.

“The temperature. At peak bloom the flower is warm, like human flesh.” He drew out the last word, particularly sibilant, baring his teeth. The human appeared unmoved, so he continued. “It attracts the carrion-eaters and devouring insects,” infusing these words with as much ominous threat as he could manage. (Which was a significant amount, when he so desired.)

“Fascinating.” He watched in consternation as she ignored him, and began to walk around him towards the Bloom. Frantically he grabbed at her wrist and yanked her backwards, forgoing this time the hand over her mouth. 

"The _ring_ , mind the ring, you idiot!"

The human glanced at him, then the hand on her wrist. He let go. She took an exaggerated step over the circle and turned her back on him. She began to examine the frills of the spathe, its deep burgundy folds. One hand tugged thoughtfully at a lock of hair, the other propped up on her hip. She’d forgotten entirely about her knife.

“I—you—how can you stand it?” he wondered aloud. “The smell! The scent of rotten meat and carrion! It’s— are you humans genuinely that blind?”

“Hm?” She glanced at him, then away, and pulled a glass rod of some kind from a pouch at her hip. She began to use it to manipulate the bloom, prodding at something at the spadix’s base.

“Mmm, yes, the smell. Well, it stank the first time I saw it, I didn’t expect that to change. I applied a peppermint extract to my upper lip, I’ve used it before. Does the charm. Can’t smell a thing.”

He watched her for a long moment. There was a curious, elegant furrow to her brow as she studied the bloom, her motions delicate but economical. She verified the heat of it, holding the back of her hand carefully an inch away from the spadix’s tip. Not an innocent, but an expert, after all; she had come her for knowledge and intended to gain it, his presence be damned. He became aware of a kind of tension within himself.

_I’ve devised a method which can extract and concentrate oils from fruits you’ve never heard of,_ he wanted to tell her. _I am renowned among this continent for my skills and experience, I have been commissioned for art and artefacts your race cannot comprehend. I have grown wonders that could eat you alive._

Arum didn’t understand the complex whirlpool of emotions within him, and he did not like it.

“That’s enough of that,” he snapped. “Get away from it before you ruin a priceless work of art, human.” He’d forgotten, in that moment, that he fully intended to ruin it himself.

“I will in a moment,” she told him. Her interest appeared to have been caught by the bloom’s flowers, a ring of blossoms concealed by the draping sheath. She tucked one dark ringlet behind her ear, and leaned in, appraising.

“Mhm. Male,” she murmured, apparently to herself. “What are its pollinators? Ah. You said. Carrion-eaters, et cetera. Fascinating. Very little competition, I’d wager.”

“‘Male?’” Arum repeated, ignoring the rest of her deduction. (It was an obvious conclusion after all, he’d practically handed it to her.) “You are...referring to the plant?” Or should he be offended? Was he not a spectacular specimen of a very male monster? 

“Of course. It’s a male plant.”

“It’s...a plant. It can’t be male.”

They stared at each other in mutual incomprehension.

“What I mean to say,” the human began, in an infuriatingly patronizing tone, “is that the flowers within this plant produce pollen. This pollen will be transferred, by pollinators such as the insects you mentioned, to the female plant, which has flowers which are receptive to--”

He cut her off with a hiss. “I understand plant propagation, and likely better than you, human. I had simply never realized you humans were so obsessed with your own sexes as to apply them to the flora.” She turned to fully face him now, bloom momentarily forgotten. The irritation on her face mirrored his own.

“For the first, I doubt it. For the second, what’s your elegant solution then, monster? Not being ‘obsessed with your own sex’?” She made a gesture he didn’t recognize when she quoted back at him. Arum wasn’t certain of its meaning, but it certainly seemed rude.

“Pollen producing flowers are, of course, sun flowers, and the receptive plants moon flowers. I’m sure I don’t have to explain light emission to you,” he sneered. Frankly, if she’d expressed ignorance about the very existence of celestial bodies it wouldn’t phase him. Barbaric creatures. She threw her hands up in the air.

“Oh, and I’m sure that’s not at all confusing when you’re discussing the biological day-night cycles of blooming plants!” 

“Well, for those of us who can manage to remember the difference between two slightly similar sounding terms, it’s not such a terrible inconvenience!”

In a bush to their left, a bird exploded upwards in a flurry of motion, startled by his raised voice. Arum froze instinctively and watched the human do the same. He berated himself for being ten times a fool as his eyes flickered around the clearing-- to lose sight of his mission here, and now, driven to distraction by a scaleless pest! 

But after a long moment, they each seemed to decide that no further action was forthcoming, and relaxed their postures. The human looked at him with a twist to her mouth. He flexed his hands.

“In any regard,” he said, much quieter now, “your observation skills are worse than your terminology. That’s a moon plant.” Her face moved in a way that made the tufts of hair over her eyes rise. 

“No, it’s not.”

“I assure you I am more familiar with the anatomy of this particular--”

“See for yourself, then,” she snapped, pointing at the bloom.

He moved forward-- she took a step to the side before he could elbow her out of the way-- and examined the tiny scarlet flowers. They were positioned high on the spadix itself, not down at its base, as he’d remembered, though the color was the same. Arum clicked the claws of one lower hand together sharply. Well. Wasn’t that interesting.

The human was speaking, a boastful tone he automatically ignored as he continued to examine the flower. He’d been certain that he’d seen moon organs during the last viewing, though admittedly it had been some time since…There. Low on the spadix, where it joined the draping petals, not visible unless you had a high enough angle. The human certainly didn’t. A secondary ring of flowers, differently shaped, receptive. Fascinating. It appeared that the two sets were out of sync, so that one bloomed only after the other had closed. Perhaps self-pollination had existed in the strain at some point, but it certainly wasn’t occurring now…

He gently manipulated the Bloom, leaning in closer for a better look at the lower flowers as he reached for the pouch at his belt and opened it with practiced familiarity. It was only when his hand closed on empty air that he looked away from the plant in astonishment. He brought another hand to it, running through the contents frantically to the same result. He hissed in irritation as he realized where he had gone wrong.

When he left for this mission he’d had no reason to expect that he’d be bringing anything back. And glass containment vials had an infuriating tendency to make noise at the moment which would be least convenient for him. 

“Didn’t bring any collection tools?”

Arum paused, aware that his reaction had not been particularly subtle. The human reached into her own beltpouch and brought forth two wide-mouthed bottles, stoppered neatly with cork. When he failed to respond immediately she tilted them from side to side, as though to lure him with their shine.

“I have enough. I’m willing to give you one if you’ll collect a sample for me as well. I’d like to examine it at home; I have some theories but I’ll need to look closer at the anatomy.”

He just looked at her. She made a noise in her throat and looked down and away, towards the dark circle of the creeper.

“And it is a...offering, so that you won’t harm me. Mighty and terrifying monster that you are.”

_Now_ she offered him respect and bribes? After she’d already been so impudent! Truly, humans had no society at all. If he’d tried such a thing in the circle he’d have been laughed out of the room at the very least. He was insulted at the mere thought.

But they were mannerless creatures, after all. And he did, rather desperately, desire some samples of his own.

He extended an open hand towards her. When the human failed to place the bottles in it immediately, he clicked his claws together in sharp demand. She took a long breath in, and then out, as if scenting the air. Finally she handed them over and he returned to his work.

The sun flowers he selected first, one into each bottle; he didn’t want to remove more than that, lest it be noticed. If the human couldn’t get her information from a singular sample, let her wonder. He had parted the petals again, prepared to select the moon flowers, when he spotted something that gave him pause.

 

It was pure white, eyeless, a slick thing at the base of the spadix; it seemed to be affixed in some way, though he couldn’t have said if it was teeth or suction keeping the creature attached. As he watched, it moved ever so slightly, flinching in on itself twice. At the same time, color rushed outwards from the place where it was joined, a bloom of saturation. Was it injecting some sort of fluid, or nutrient? It didn’t seem to be doing any harm; the opposite, in fact. He’d never seen anything like it in any of his travels. Nothing even close. It was one of a kind.

He stilled, then looked up into the middle distance. Utterly unique, much like the state of the bloom. Laevis was no architect, but neither was he an idiot; he knew an advantage when he saw one. He’d never be able to grow a plant so large on his own. Arum had been suspecting some sort of aid, an aid he had yet been unable to discover.

He made a decision.

Delicately, with the tips of his claws, he pried the creature away from the spadix. It offered little resistance; it felt a bit like pulling the cap off of a mushroom, which only heightened his curiosity. He cupped it in his palm, keeping it out of the human’s line of sight. With it in his grasp he could sense the warmth of the tiny creature, even-- yes-- something like a pulse. This mystery ran deeper than he’d suspected.

He placed the creature into the second bottle and tucked it into his pouch. Then looked up, sudden, searching the canopy above. The human looked up as well, trying to follow his line of sight. Her hand was on her knife, but she hadn’t drawn it-- poor training, if he truly had heard an attacker she’d be dead already-- and her feet braced.

“What is it?” she whispered. He pointed at a dense cluster of foliage. She focused in on it, tense like a hunting cat, and he promptly darted off in the other direction. He was already a length off the ground by the time she turned around. A cut-off cry of rage followed him into the canopy, and he allowed himself a smile.

Well. Not the way he’d planned this particular endeavor, but something told him this would yet work to his advantage. As he bellied up the length of a familiar trunk, gaining height, Arum spared one hand to touch the weight of the bottle at his waist. Still there, a mystery and an answer waiting to be discovered.

This was going to change everything.

 

 

From within the cottage came a clatter of sound. Arum blinked, realizing it had been some time since he’d done so, and ran for the door. But before he threw it open, other sounds registered: Damien’s high babble and Rilla’s soothing tones, the clack of wood on wood.

He opened the door slowly, with every appearance of composure.

Damien sprawled on the floor next to the dining table and the remains of his drink. Rilla knelt beside him, rag in hand, poised carefully at the edge of the puddle slowly spreading from Damien’s mug. They turned to look at him in unison, startled into silence.

Eyes lit with joy, Damien broke the tableau first, pumping a fist in the air. 

“Rilla! Our swift and valiant scout has returned!”

“I have eyes too, Damien.” But she was smiling as she said it. Damien sat up, and she handed him the rag and dropped a kiss on the top of his head. Then she stood and approached Arum with an outstretched hand.

“You made good time, Arum. Welcome back.”

He took her hand, gentle, and raised it to his cheek; with his free hands he set down his burden on the empty dining table.

“Not as good as I’d have liked,” he murmured. He pressed a kiss to her fingers, and she withdrew them. They both turned to Damien, who had tilted his head to rest it against the edge of the table as he watched them. His eyelids drooped. Arum huffed a quiet laugh.

“You’ve exhausted our honeysuckle, Rilla. Looks how he wilts.”

“He was getting some good sleep until the fireworks started. He gets so jumpy when he isn’t sleeping in the bed.”

“Well. I know of one cure for that, certainly.”

Damien only watched them from the floor, not interjecting, which was a surer sign of his exhaustion than anything else Arum knew. He relented, and knelt to offer him his arm. The knight arose with a grateful little sigh, and didn’t let go, even once he’d regained his footing. Arum’s heart felt full to bursting. He looked over at Rilla, and found her watching Damien, eyes soft. He hoped his emotions were not so plainly read, but suspected it was a vain hope.

“I’ve brought what you asked for,” he murmured, tilting his head towards the satchel on the table. She exhaled through her nose, a whisper of a laugh, and moved so that she was supporting Damien on the other side. Over his head, she replied, “Prompt and reliable. I like that. I half suspected you were going to, hm, steal my collecting tools and then vanish into the woods for a few years or so.”

“I do try never to repeat myself, blossom,” he assured her. She rolled her eyes at him. Together they lead Damien to the bed, where he clambered into his place in the center then dropped like a stone. Rilla bumped Arum with her hip, looking mischievous.

“Dishes tomorrow says he’s snoring in two minutes.” Her whisper wasn’t quite low enough, probably on purpose; the knight moved his head enough that he could glare balefully at them with one eye.

“Tomorrow I will gladly regale you as to why it is utterly impossible that I am the lone inhabitant of this bed who snores, but that must wait until the sunrise. Will the two of you please get in here?”

“Well. Hard to resist when you ask like that.” She turned her back to him and lifted her hair, letting Arum undo the fastenings of her tunic as his lower hands set to disrobing himself. They grew quiet, save the soft, familiar noises of fabric falling, Rilla’s hands as she twisted and braided her own hair. He felt himself relaxing by inches, losing the alertness and adrenaline that he donned like a cloak in the jungle.

Even the final series of fireworks exploding overhead barely made him blink. But Damien roused again, looking up towards the roof of the cottage as though he could see through to the heavens above.

“We’ve missed the final firework sequence,” he said in a tone perilously close to a whine. Arum huffed as he settled in behind him, one hand on the warm, soft skin of his bicep.

“It’s only the first night, Damien. Three full days of festivities. There’s plenty more yet to come.” Rilla’s voice had begun to deepen with drowsiness as she slid under the covers. Damien murmured wordless acknowledgement. Arum reached across to rest a hand on the swell of her hip. He breathed in the scent of the man and woman he loved, and he let himself sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this chapter is longer than both of the previous ones combined! But this relationship is the one facet of this triad we haven't seen in canon yet, so I wanted to devote a little more time to how these two might interact. (It's actually one of the longest chapters I've written, being an inveterate drabbler but it was fun to see it through!)
> 
> Thanks for reading-- and if you've been following this one since the beginning, thanks for your patience!


End file.
